Read Online A Suspicious Affair by Bárbara Metzger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bárbara Metzger
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trustee for the little duke, if it be a boy, and if she got hanged.
Then there was Lord Kimbrough. No one hereabouts would hear a word against the earl. Could he commit cold-blooded murder? The vicar’s wife would tie her garters on the main street first. Kimbrough was fair, generous, and not above having a pint or two with the lads after a hard day’s work. Now
that
was a real gentleman.
Lord Kimbrough even made a point of finding Dimm at his inn and inviting the Runner to dinner one evening. A real dinner it was, too, not a batch of those pawky little bits of things swimming in sauces. The earl served an honest haunch of venison, mutton, and beef, with potatoes and turnips and peas, and no footman to scoop the platters away before a man had his fill. Kimbrough didn’t get to that size and strength eating no lark’s tongues, Dimm reflected contentedly. Besides, the Runner had already wangled a position in his lordship’s stables for his younger boy, who had a real touch with horses. And he was in a fair way to landing a living for Cherry’s brother, who was currently ministering to the lost souls of London’s slums, at Dimm’s expense. And that was all before dessert. Too bad that funeral was tomorrow.
*
Lord Kimbrough decided to attend the funeral after all. He wasn’t going to at first, not to pay respects to a man he despised. But he was keenly aware of his responsibilities and knew that as magistrate, neighbor, fellow nobleman, and bordering landowner, by rights he should go. He wouldn’t want to be thought lacking in courtesy to the duchess, either. Both duchesses, he amended. Besides, he didn’t want anyone suggesting he stayed away because of a guilty conscience. He had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, Carlinn told himself, at least nothing to do with Denning’s murder. Making a recent widow cry, driving to tears a woman who was breeding, that was another matter. And then fleeing! Cow-handed and chickenhearted both!
His guilt must have shown, for even the amiable Dimm looked at him queerly, almost as if the Runner knew what a clumsy oaf Carlinn had been.
So he was going to Arvid Pendenning’s last rites. There might even be some satisfaction seeing the bastard put in the ground he cared so little about. And, too, he had Dimm beside him, so he could help identify anyone else come to gloat. It was Dimm who pointed out the duchess’s young brother, acting as one of the pallbearers. Laughton had the same fair coloring and the same patrician nose. With a little maturity and a bit of country cooking, the lad might be pleasant looking, as opposed to the sister. Carlinn recalled the duchess as looking aged beyond her twenty-one years and as if she’d been eating for two for all twenty-one of them. She wasn’t present, of course, but would be waiting at the Castle with the other women to receive those wishing to express their condolences.
Kimbrough did not so wish. He’d done his duty to Arvid’s memory, having sat through the Castle’s private chaplain’s droning attempt to find something nice to say about the blighter. Then he’d stood in the biting cold at the Pendenning burial grounds while the chaplain gave it a final go.
There were three distinct groups of mourners, Kimbrough noted as his mind wandered. One batch consisted of more relieved noblemen seen in one place than since Fou-Fou La Rue burned her journals. These were the men Dimm wanted identified, Arvid’s gulls come to see if their notes were being called in. Then there were enough tallow-faced Captain Sharps to fleece every lamb in Berkshire. Boynton’s friends, he supposed, come to support him in his grief—and to stake their claims to his future riches. The third group, a small gathering of tenants and local citizenry, stayed well away from the Londoners.
It was these last whose hands Kimbrough first shook when the cleric finally ran down. Then he moved among the knights, barons, and honorables, introducing Dimm when he
Then there was Lord Kimbrough. No one hereabouts would hear a word against the earl. Could he commit cold-blooded murder? The vicar’s wife would tie her garters on the main street first. Kimbrough was fair, generous, and not above having a pint or two with the lads after a hard day’s work. Now
that
was a real gentleman.
Lord Kimbrough even made a point of finding Dimm at his inn and inviting the Runner to dinner one evening. A real dinner it was, too, not a batch of those pawky little bits of things swimming in sauces. The earl served an honest haunch of venison, mutton, and beef, with potatoes and turnips and peas, and no footman to scoop the platters away before a man had his fill. Kimbrough didn’t get to that size and strength eating no lark’s tongues, Dimm reflected contentedly. Besides, the Runner had already wangled a position in his lordship’s stables for his younger boy, who had a real touch with horses. And he was in a fair way to landing a living for Cherry’s brother, who was currently ministering to the lost souls of London’s slums, at Dimm’s expense. And that was all before dessert. Too bad that funeral was tomorrow.
*
Lord Kimbrough decided to attend the funeral after all. He wasn’t going to at first, not to pay respects to a man he despised. But he was keenly aware of his responsibilities and knew that as magistrate, neighbor, fellow nobleman, and bordering landowner, by rights he should go. He wouldn’t want to be thought lacking in courtesy to the duchess, either. Both duchesses, he amended. Besides, he didn’t want anyone suggesting he stayed away because of a guilty conscience. He had absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, Carlinn told himself, at least nothing to do with Denning’s murder. Making a recent widow cry, driving to tears a woman who was breeding, that was another matter. And then fleeing! Cow-handed and chickenhearted both!
His guilt must have shown, for even the amiable Dimm looked at him queerly, almost as if the Runner knew what a clumsy oaf Carlinn had been.
So he was going to Arvid Pendenning’s last rites. There might even be some satisfaction seeing the bastard put in the ground he cared so little about. And, too, he had Dimm beside him, so he could help identify anyone else come to gloat. It was Dimm who pointed out the duchess’s young brother, acting as one of the pallbearers. Laughton had the same fair coloring and the same patrician nose. With a little maturity and a bit of country cooking, the lad might be pleasant looking, as opposed to the sister. Carlinn recalled the duchess as looking aged beyond her twenty-one years and as if she’d been eating for two for all twenty-one of them. She wasn’t present, of course, but would be waiting at the Castle with the other women to receive those wishing to express their condolences.
Kimbrough did not so wish. He’d done his duty to Arvid’s memory, having sat through the Castle’s private chaplain’s droning attempt to find something nice to say about the blighter. Then he’d stood in the biting cold at the Pendenning burial grounds while the chaplain gave it a final go.
There were three distinct groups of mourners, Kimbrough noted as his mind wandered. One batch consisted of more relieved noblemen seen in one place than since Fou-Fou La Rue burned her journals. These were the men Dimm wanted identified, Arvid’s gulls come to see if their notes were being called in. Then there were enough tallow-faced Captain Sharps to fleece every lamb in Berkshire. Boynton’s friends, he supposed, come to support him in his grief—and to stake their claims to his future riches. The third group, a small gathering of tenants and local citizenry, stayed well away from the Londoners.
It was these last whose hands Kimbrough first shook when the cleric finally ran down. Then he moved among the knights, barons, and honorables, introducing Dimm when he
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